


Marking Time

by imunbreakabledude



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Universe, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s03e06 End of Game, Softness, it seems sad but it's wholesome i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imunbreakabledude/pseuds/imunbreakabledude
Summary: It takes all of Villanelle’s effort to turn her head, but through the door, down at the end of the hallway, there’s Eve. In one of her classic jacket-turtleneck-beanie combinations. Always dressed for the dead of winter for some reason.She’s here. She came. Villanelle didn’t ask her to. But she came anyway.--(Post 3x06. What if the plot just wasn't. And they got a moment to breathe.)
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 28
Kudos: 338





	Marking Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fixy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fixy/gifts).



> someone demanded fisting, and someone was turning half a year older, so someone is getting half of that. ;)

One, two, three… No. Start again.

One, two…

One, two, three, four – nope, counted that one twice.

Villanelle sits and counts the stitches. More than three, but fewer than ten. She can’t get any closer than that. It might be easier if Dasha’s needlework wasn’t so crooked. This is going to make an ugly scar.

Counting stitches is hard, but it’s easier than counting seconds, minutes, hours. At least the stitches she can see. She can feel the bumps on her fingertips; feel the pain in the one spot where her inside meets outside.

 _Time heals all wounds_. She can’t remember where she first heard the cliché, but she can remember what she said in response: except the ones that kill you. This isn’t a fatal blow. She will live. 

Villanelle can’t tell if she’s hungry or tired. One or more of her body’s tanks is running on empty and she remains sprawled on the tiled floor, leaning up against the sink, long after Dasha is gone. She pulls open one of the drawers next to her head. Retrieves a bottle. Struggles with the cap. A few dry swallows, and soon everything will be taken care of.

Time stretches like taffy. It squishes like packing peanuts. It drips like maple syrup. The ceiling blurs then goes black.

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

Villanelle’s eyes blink open. The noise is above her. An electric razor? Is she in a salon?

Her uninjured arm manages to reach up and grasp blindly until it closes around her vibrating phone. 

Her thumb swipes to answer the call, smudging a few particles of dried blood across the screen.

“Where are you?”

Time is funny again; the voice coming through the phone is reaching out to her from six, seven months ago. Did she somehow accidentally play an old voicemail? No, she deleted those ages ago. She destroyed that whole phone. So how is Eve’s voice coming through?

“Villanelle?”

“What?”

“Good, it’s you,” Eve says. “I want to come see you.”

“Who is this?”

The sound of breathing. “Do you seriously not recognize my voice at this point?”

“Is this real?” Who could be imitating the voice this well? Irina? Is it a prank? Or perhaps a trap laid by her employers…

“What? Of course it’s real. I need to know–”

Villanelle ends the call. She starts counting stitches again.

Four stitches later, the phone rings again. Same number. She answers.

“Are you alright?”

Villanelle ponders for a few seconds. “No.”

“What happened?” Eve demands. Then, goes on: “No, don’t answer that. First, tell me where you are. Are you still in Barcelona? I was just there. I’ve been flying back and forth from London to Barcelona for days. You could come meet me here, maybe? My bank account’s almost spent. But not – not if things are bad. If things are bad I can come to you. Where are you?”

One, two, three… three… what comes after three?

“Hello?” Eve asks. Her voice stretches like taffy.

The room swims again, then disappears.

When Villanelle’s eyes open the next time, her phone is next to her on the tiled floor. As soon as she touches it, the screen lights up. Five new voicemails. She listens to the first.

Eve’s voice is blurred by background noise. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t even know where you are, but I’m flying to Barcelona – Yes, just the carry on, thank you – and you better fucking be there, because after this I don’t have the cash to keep searching around for you.”

The message cuts out. She plays the next.

“Look, I thought we were past this stupid cat-and-mouse thing, but maybe I’m an idiot. I want to talk to you, that’s all, because I think there’s some big shit about to go down and… I don’t know who else I can trust right now. That sounds pretty stupid when I say it out loud. Just, call me back, please? Or tell me where I can find you.”

She plays the next.

“Now I don’t know if you’re ignoring me, or if you’re really in trouble. If you hadn’t picked up before, I’d think I just had the wrong number, or you ditched the phone after calling the bakery, but… If you can’t call back, can you at least turn on your location so I can find you? I want to–”

The message cuts out. So does Villanelle’s memory.

The next thing she knows, she’s sitting on her bed, face planted down at the foot, cheek pressed into the duvet. Her arm is on fire. Enough taffy-time has passed for the painkillers to wear off, but getting more would require standing, and standing would be very bad.

She shifts her head, props herself up with her good arm. A half-empty handle of gin slides across her silks bedspread as she moves, and clinks into her laptop, propped open at an awkward angle. The screen wakes up to show the receipt page for a green tartan and fur outfit she can’t remember purchasing.

She cradles her left arm, and uses the right to take a swig of gin. It burns going down, and her organs cry out for water. Water would mean standing, and standing would be bad.

Villanelle lets her head fall against the pillow. A wild change of scenery. Her head pounds so badly she can hear the rhythmic beat. It sounds like footsteps.

No. It _is_ footsteps.

“There you are.” The voice. It’s real. Either that, or the painkillers and the gin have somehow had a kickass hallucinogenic effect.

It takes all of Villanelle’s effort to turn her head, but through the door, down at the end of the hallway, there’s Eve. In one of her classic jacket-turtleneck-beanie combinations. Always dressed for the dead of winter for some reason.

She’s here. She came. Villanelle didn’t ask her to. But she came anyway.

She stops at the edge of the bed. Looks down. “Are you alright?”

“Fit as a fiddle,” Villanelle says, steeling her core, and making the effort to sit up straight. A wave of dizziness comes over her, and Eve’s face blurs.

“Don’t move,” Eve commands. Villanelle blinks, and Eve’s gone. She blinks again, and Eve’s back, holding a glass of water. “Drink.”

Villanelle does. With each swallow, a little bit comes back to her. Hearing Eve’s voicemails. _I want to see you. I want… You._ Turning on her location services. Dragging herself to the bed before she passed out again. 

And here Eve is, in the flesh.

There are questions, but they’re too big to fit through Villanelle’s mouth. She finishes the water, and Eve grabs the glass out of her hand, refills it, and returns again. She takes off her coat and hat, putting them in the corner with her bag. Then she moves the laptop over to the nightstand, then sits next to Villanelle on the bed. 

“I met your friend Dasha,” Eve says. 

“She is not my friend.”

“What is she?”

“She made me what I am.”

“Funny. That’s what she said, too.”

Villanelle swirls around the last few drops of water in the glass. “Why were you with Dasha?”

“We went bowling.”

“Oh.”

Villanelle keeps swirling the water, until Eve puts her hand on the glass to stop her. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“You asked that before.”

“And I’m still not convinced.”

“Are you mad because you lost at bowling?”

“Why do you assume I lost?”

“I have seen Dasha on the lanes. She is like a bull and the pins are the red cape.”

“We will never know who would’ve won, because she pussed out after three frames. Couldn’t handle a little real competition.”

“She is even more of a sore loser than you.”

“You have enough strength to insult me,” Eve says. “That’s a good sign.” Then she swings her legs over to the edge of the bed, stands up, and stretches. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know.” Villanelle tries to remember the last time she ate. She looks down at her stomach as if there will be some visual indicator, but comes up empty.

“Yeah, I’m gonna order some food.” Eve goes to crouch next to her bag, and pulls out her wallet, then exhales. “Shit. If I can.”

Villanelle takes a deep breath, then hauls herself off the bed. Walking seems a tall order, still, but she manages to crawl over to her dresser. She opens the top drawer, pushes aside a few bullets and a knife and a couple pairs of socks, to retrieve a thick wad of Euro bills, which she rolls across the floor in Eve’s direction.

Eve picks them up. “That’ll do.”

* * *

Some amount of taffy-time later. Chinese food and beer. Eve opens a can for Villanelle. It’s stupidly chivalrous. Eve pops dumplings one at a time into her mouth, while Villanelle shovels shrimp and noodles down her throat. Once she took the first bite, she became ravenous. The container is halfway empty within seconds.

“I never told you,” Eve says, as she washes down a bite with a swig of beer. “Thanks for the cake.”

“Was it good?” Villanelle asks, hopefully. “The place had four circles on TripAdvisor.”

“I didn’t taste it.”

“Oh.” That seems about right, for Eve.

“You know, you’re the only person who remembered my birthday.”

Villanelle finishes chewing, then puts down her chopsticks. “Eve,” she says. “Who made you what you are?”

The question hangs in the air, and Villanelle tries to guess what the answer will be today. Niko, most probably. It’s always been about Niko. Though Eve never seemed to like him much, he was always at the center of things. Or perhaps Carolyn; she’d be an easy scapegoat, since from what Villanelle can tell Eve’s life was very boring before Carolyn promoted her. Maybe if she’s feeling poetic, she will even say Raymond. One never forgets a first kill…

“Up until a couple of days ago,” Eve begins. “I would have said you.”

Villanelle’s heart stops.

“But not now?”

“No,” Eve says.

“Who, then?” It comes out as barely a whisper.

“I think we make ourselves what we are,” Eve says, with an odd amount of conviction. “No one else is responsible for this mess,” – she gestures at herself – “but me.”

Villanelle suddenly feels very warm. She instinctively motions to roll up her sleeves before realizing she’s still in a tank top and has no sleeves to roll up.

As her hand grazes over her arm, it draws Eve’s attention back to the gash on her bicep. “What happened to you?” She leans closer. Her arm twitches like she wants to touch, though knows she shouldn’t. Like a toddler in front of a stovetop.

_Tell her what happened._

Found a family. Lost a family. Burned down the past for the second time, though it’s still chasing her somehow. Got Konstantin. Lost Konstantin – or might as well have, since he’s made it clear he has no real intention of inviting her along on his trip to Cuba. Got promoted. Rather, got lied to, and shown all she’s fit for. 

The words won’t reach her mouth, they get tangled up somewhere in her trachea. She swallows them down with a swig of beer. 

Meanwhile, Eve’s fingers found their confidence, and they connect with Villanelle’s skin like arcs of lightning, framing the cut. Dancing around it skittishly. 

Villanelle’s eyes dart up to Eve’s face, which is squinty and laser-focused. “What happened to _you,_ Eve?” 

“Choices,” she murmurs.

Her hand leaves the wound, and traces its way down Villanelle’s arm, past her wrist, to her palm. Then Eve’s fingers twist and interlock with Villanelle’s. She squeezes her hand tight, then leans in.

Their second kiss is much gentler than their first. And longer. When Eve finally breaks the contact, Villanelle flinches instinctively: the echo of skull cracking against skull plays in her mind. 

No impact this time. Only the warmth of Eve’s breath against her skin. Villanelle notices her own breath has sped up, she’s panting furiously, like she can’t get enough oxygen. The air tastes of beer and soy sauce and Eve. 

Another kiss. Eve wants it. They both want it. As their lips twist together, so do their hands, Eve’s holding onto Villanelle’s hand as if for dear life. Squeezing so tight it feels like it might cut off the whole bloodstream, make her whole arm go numb. A better painkiller than the pills. 

It’s warm. Villanelle once again feels the urge to remove clothing, not just sleeves. They break apart, breathe. Disrobe one bit at a time. Determined, but not hurried. Villanelle helps Eve get the turtleneck over her head. They climb onto the bed together, and Eve helps Villanelle shimmy out of her tight leather pants in turn. 

Instead of counting stitches, Villanelle counts scars. One, two, three… It doesn’t matter whose are whose: each wound was a group effort, so she and Eve can share custody. Their hands explore each other’s skin. Villanelle counts the scars; Eve counts moles. They study each other like art students at the Louvre.

The whole time, hand in hand. Eve refuses to let go. But it’s becoming time for something new; Villanelle can’t study forever. She needs what comes next. So she squeezes Eve’s hand in return: three short pulses. Code for: _follow my lead._

She leans back, propping herself up against the hearty stack of pillows at the head of the bed. Taking Eve’s hand in both of hers, she folds down pinky and thumb, then, guiding the hand with the three remaining fingers, brings it down between her legs. She exhales and relaxes, while she helps Eve’s fingers inside of her. 

Villanelle’s leading until she’s not. Her hand remains around Eve’s wrist, but rather than showing Eve how to move in and out, now she’s merely following. Villanelle reaches other other hand down to rub at her clit while Eve works inside her. How can a motion be so strong, yet so gentle at the same time?

Time heals all wounds. But people have the power to speed the process. 

Well, not any _“people”_ : Eve. Eve is the poison and the antidote. Eve is the cause and the symptom. Eve is the fresh wound and the faded scar.

Villanelle keeps her eyes open, watches Eve’s face the whole time. Her curls spill over her shoulders, and sway gently in the air with her motion. Her eyes are wide, her brows high. Searching. Studying. For once, not jumping to conclusions. Villanelle hasn’t seen that particular look on Eve’s face since a different bedroom, in Paris. She thought she knew Eve, then. She knows she knows Eve, now.

She knows she knows? She nose? Villanelle giggles out loud, right as Eve’s fingers curling insider her bring the rippling warmth of orgasm through her. It isn’t the biggest, isn’t the best. Eve stares down, wondering why she’s laughing. It’s awkward. It makes Villanelle laugh harder.

They disentangle, except for their hands. The hands stay interlocked. Eve lies out next to Villanelle on the bed. Turns to face her on her side. Another echo of the past, but with fewer clothes on, and fewer knives. Same amount of fresh stab wounds, though. Villanelle laughs again.

“What’s so funny?” Eve asks.

“Doesn’t this feel like a punchline to you?”

“If it is, I missed the setup,” Eve says, frowning. She adjusts her position, and as her hand tugs on Villanelle’s, it sends a pang of pain through her bicep. She winces.

Eve leans forward and examines the wound. She kisses the skin next to it. Then again. One, two, three, four… Villanelle loses count, but doesn’t mind this time.

“What are we going to do, Eve?”

“I don’t know.”

Neither one of them offers an answer.

But they have time.

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I wasn't gonna write any more post-episode fics this season, but... here we are!
> 
> hope you liked xo
> 
> you can also find me on [tumblr](https://imunbreakabledude.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/not_breakable)


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